


le quotidien

by cicak



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Het, Size Kink, Thunderstorms, but just a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicak/pseuds/cicak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That specific day, the day they finally fucked, was routine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	le quotidien

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kmo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/gifts).



 

They had an agreement, hashed out on a layover while secreted in a far away corner of a first class lounge in Charles de Gaulle airport, that while they would play the fiction of husband and wife for convenient appearance, there was no obligation, on either of their parts, for there to be any carnality. It seemed like an arbitrary line to draw, when he had fucked her so comprehensively over the last few years, first through Neal, and then through the alibi. She liked to think that she had the distinction, that no one had ever been quite so fucked fully clothed by Hannibal Lecter as Bedelia du Maurier.

For the first month, everything was fine. They dined together. They traveled together. They did not kiss. Instead, they danced, pressed together, him in the finest menswear blind men could produce, her dressed like his Barbie doll in what he wanted her to be. He dressed her physically as well as with his money, all the buttoning and unbuttoning happened beneath his fingers. She was thinner than she had ever been, and when he did touch her she could feel his furnace-like heat through to her bones.

The thing was, after that first month, playing house with a serial killer and being on best behaviour became tiring. She gave up being self conscious about nudity, and would watch him in carefully set up mirrors watch her get out of the bath, apply her moisturiser, and keep his distance. He never did anything so crass as masturbate, or pretend to catch her in the nude, or do anything but watch her like a predator.

Until the day he came into the bathroom, and washed her hair. She could see the glint of his wedding ring, that very submissive indicator to the world that he was a man that belonged to someone else. She couldn’t remember the day he started wearing it. She had worn it from the moment he had handed her one half of the set, but he hadn’t worn his before they had arrived in Italy.

It gave her a thrill that took a solid week to properly unpack.

The issue at that point was that she had started to want to have sex with Hannibal Lecter. Bedelia had not run away to the continent of her ancestors with him because she was in love with him, or even particularly attracted to him.

That specific day, the day they finally fucked, was routine. It was unremarkable. She roused when she heard Hannibal moving around the apartment, and drank coffee with him as he caught up with the news from back home on his tablet. He made her eggs how she liked them (soft scrambled whites on the most rustic and coarse bread), and had cold slices of meat for himself. She did not ask where the meat came from.

When Hannibal left for work, he paused as he walked past her, and breathed deep. She turned and looked at him, and there was something. She was aware, suddenly, of her autonomic system. Of its betrayal. The way she felt, flashing back to a dream where something nonspecific but highly arousing had happened.

The idea that he could smell even latent arousal was deeply arousing, if you didn’t think about. Which Bedelia did. All day, walking around Florence, being preoccupied while in Chanel and buying a dress that could not be for anything but sex with a man of specific taste. Then doing the same in the presence of Louboutins, and ultimately ending up at the apartment with boxes upon boxes of fine things that had just one use. Gossamer thin underwear that nevertheless was like armour, a finely wrought thing in and among itself. An old perfume, something she wore back when this kind of thing didn’t happen to her. A bath oil that contained flecks of gold that promised to cling to your skin as you emerged like a goddess from the depths.

The dress was cunning, the shoes dangerous, and everything else calculated like the plans of an army marching across a continent. With everything together, she felt as close to invincible as one could.

The wine was chilling, and there were oysters in the icebox (a literal icebox, what a world). Her bed was freshly made, and as she plumped the pillows she slid her obsidian dagger between the frame and the mattress for good luck.

Hannibal returned from work at half past five. He seemed rattled, preoccupied. Something had obviously happened.

She rose, greeted him, and smiled.

He looked first at her feet, then the smoothness of her stockings, up to the shocking dress,  and then when he met her eyes, she knew. She knew he knew.

Still, he prepared dinner. He made something they both could eat, something vegetarian. That in itself was a conciliation. The molluscs stay in their box for another day, spared their execution, but part of her wants their obvious sexuality. She wants to be this Bedelia, in this dress, in these shoes, swallowing an oyster whole in front of him, to see the look on his face. She wants that power, that rawness.

They eat. Hannibal puts on music. They don’t speak. The change hangs over them, tension and humidity. Bedelia sees herself reflected in every mirrored surface and becomes nervous, until she realises that Hannibal is looking at those reflections, and at her, and only her, and still unable to say anything to her.

There is a flash of lightning outside the window, and she jumps. The rumble of thunder sounds like a piano falling down stairs. The storm is close, and the sky is purple with its anger, but the humidity is about to break, their sexual tension not far behind it.

Hannibal takes the plates away, and comes back empty handed, without props. She is standing by the window, watching the storm, and he stands behind her. She sees him illuminated when the lightning flashes, looking vulnerable and noble. She nods, once, deliberate.

He begins by kissing her neck, his hands on her waist. By the time his teeth find her earlobe, unadorned for this very reason, she is already so close to orgasm from the day long anticipation it is comical. Her hands are braced against the rain streaked glass, and a rumble of thunder causes it to vibrate through her hands as she gasps and closes her eyes against just how very good it is.

She ends up backed against the window itself, her heels, all 120mm of them, raise her up so she is tall enough to kiss him. He is so strong, so warm, so alive despite everything. Bedelia has rarely taken male lovers, but when she did it was never quite like this. Never with so much at stake. Hannibal is almost feminine in the way he experiences pleasure, very vocal, tactile, responsive. She winds her fingers into his hair and pulls. His head goes back, and she scrapes her teeth against his jugular. He goes weak at the knees, sliding until she is standing in her heels, dress half way up her thighs, with her fingers in Hannibal Lecter’s salt and pepper hair, holding his head back so he is looking up at her.

He runs his fingers up her legs, moving the hem of her dress up until the bulk of it sits comfortably in the small of her back and caught above her pelvis. The stockings are held in place by sturdy metal clips attached to a belt that sits high up on her natural waist, but that is all. Hannibal groans, “please, may I?”, so sweetly, that it is nothing to guide his head into place between her thighs.

He licks her clit once, his tongue tensed so it is more of a high pressure rub than the soft, wet caress of a tongue, and she almost loses her balance. He then focuses more on eating her like one would eat overripe fruit, all luscious sucks and broad swipes of tongue. She comes in less than a minute, and when her thighs clamp down on either side of his had, she dreams that her orgasm would be long enough to suffocate him.

She ends up on the floor with him, dress a mess and throws her heels off. On their knees, they undress each other. Hannibal is impressive nude, his muscles well defined and skin burnished from an unseen sun. His prick is of average length, but thick in the way that can never, ever be underestimated. Bedelia, despite herself, despite her orgasm, wants it, and wants the power behind it.

Hannibal gathers her into his arms and kisses her. They lie side by side, his prick nudging between her legs over excited and eager. The head is broad, and when she experiments by running a fingernail over one nipple, it jumps, alive against her.

There isn’t a bearskin rug, or anything so crass, but he has her from behind, her knees folded up near her chest, breasts rubbing against the fine silk carpet as he so very surely presses into her. The feeling of being filled by such girth is strange, foreign, something that is nearly pleasant but not quite there immediately. He pushes in until his hips are flush, and then stops, waits. She only then realises that her breathing is fast, too fast, betraying her. He strokes her inner thighs, plays casually with her clit until she feels, they both feel, her relax around him. He fucks exactly how she had imagined, smooth, perfect, conscientious. It is so much, so very intense. After a few minutes he lifts her up so she is abreast his thighs like the figurehead of a ship, and that angle is like nothing else. The orgasm that rips through her is tremendous, like the thunder outside, long and rumbling and never ending. She feels wetter, limper, and Hannibal grunts a series of short, deep rumbles and comes himself, fastening his teeth to her ear and setting off another spark of pleasure, a circuit between them that she wishes would never end.

In the aftermath, she is suddenly self conscious, as if the orgasm had cleared out her head like a summer storm clears the air. She cannot bear to be nude, and wears nightgown and a robe to finish watching the storm, while Hannibal struts around as God intended, proffering tidbits and fine spirits, his chest glistening with sweat and god knows what else. He has flecks of gold transferred from her skin that glimmer in the low light, and he seems completely normal, as if they fucked often. As if this whole thing was just an every day occurrence.

When she goes to bed, sinking beneath the avalanche of layers of wool and silk and duck down, she returns the obsidian knife to its customary place under her pillow, and holds it in her hand all night, just in case.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So London's been having a heatwave, and it has FINALLY BROKEN. I wrote this during the thunderstorm, on the balcony, drinking red wine (um, the bottle is empty WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN???). It is a massive thunderstorm, my loves, and this has been a pleasure to frankenstein for you.
> 
> Title is french for 'the everyday' or 'daily' - basically something unremarkable.
> 
> For kmo/[bedannibal lectaurier](http://bedannibal-lectaurier.tumblr.com) <3
> 
> Come hang with me as I lose my shit over how much Gillian Anderson made me gay at [cickalah.tumblr.com](http://cicaklah.tumblr.com)


End file.
